Dragon Weather

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “I suppose it is,” Wither admitted. “And the best thing all around is to get all of you out of here, so you can settle your disagreements once and for all and leave the rest of us undisturbed. Yes, I expect him to kill you, but if you go after him and you kill him, I won’t weep—I’ll be surprised, but I won’t weep.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “You’ve been stirring up trouble ever since you arrived, Obsidian, and I don’t like it. One way or the other, I want it settled, so that the Society can go on in harmony as it always has.”

  “Spoilsport,” Rime muttered.

  Arlian glanced at her, then turned to Nail. “And why didn’t you accept Enziet’s invitation? Why didn’t you go with him? I’ve sworn vengeance against you as much as the others.”

  “I’d prefer that you forsake that oath,” Nail replied calmly. “I’d much rather have your forgiveness than your blood; I have apologized for my crimes before, and I will do so again, if you so desire. I have made what amends I can, and will make what further amends may be reasonably required of me. If after that you still insist on slaying me, well, I won’t make it easy for you—I’ll stay within these walls as long as I can. Enziet may be determined to see you destroyed, and Wither may wish an end to this stalemate, but I would much prefer to continue as we are.”

  Arlian stared at him for a moment, then at Wither.

  “Why did you do it?” he asked. “Why did you warn him, and let him escape?”

  The old man leaned over to him and whispered, “Listen, Obsidian—you were right. Enziet speaks with the dragons. He admitted it to me. But don’t you see what that means?”

  “No,” Arlian said angrily. “Other than that he’s deceived us all.”

  “It means he knows where they are!” Wither hissed. “He can go to them, and they won’t kill him on sight, and he can fetch out venom!”

  Arlian stared at him. “For your woman,” he said.

  “Yes!” Wither slapped the table. “For Marasa! And for your woman, if you have one! For anyone you choose! We can all be immortal!”

  “And in exchange for his promise to fetch you venom, you let him go free,” Arlian said bitterly.

  “Yes.” Wither sighed. “I didn’t want to see this opportunity thrown away. I didn’t want to see the Dragon Society destroyed by the feud between the two of you. So yes, I let him go, and when he returns, if he has the venom I intend to support him wholeheartedly.”

  “If he returns,” Arlian corrected. “What if I kill him first?”

  “That’s a risk I’ll take,” Wither replied.

  “Are you going after him?” Rime asked.

  “It is a trap,” Nail said.

  “But it’s also the opportunity you wanted,” Wither said. Three of them, outside the walls.”

  Arlian looked from one to the other, trying to think.

  His enemies were vulnerable, outside the protection of his membership oath—but they were expecting him, prepared and guarded, and he would be grossly outnumbered. Wither had set it up so that he would try, and would die in doing so, ending the conflict within the Society—and getting dragon venom for his mistress as well. Wither admitted as much—he had arranged for Arlian to die trying to carry out his revenge.

  And back at the Old Palace, Sweet was waiting for him, still weak from her long ordeal—could he leave her?

  There were other matters to consider, as well: Had Drisheen and Toribor taken their captives with them? Were those four women still alive? He would have to investigate that—if he stayed in the city.

  But he had sworn to kill those three, and this was his chance.

  But Sweet was in the Old Palace, in need of his care.

  Perhaps he could wait, and then follow later, and catch Enziet and the others off guard after all—but if he waited, how would he know which way they had gone?

  “Are you going?” Rime repeated.

  “I don’t know,” Arlian said, burying his face in his hands. “I don’t know!”

  50

  A Sweet Parting

  Arlian was troubled as he walked up the path to Lord Drisheen’s mansion; Sweet was not recovering as quickly as he had expected. In fact, she had looked weaker than ever when he left her to come here.

  He glanced at the guards on either side of him. He had arrived at the gate and asked after Drisheen, as if he had not already known the man was out of the city for an extended journey, and the gatekeeper had told him that Lord Drisheen was traveling, but had left detailed instructions of what to do if Lord Obsidian came visiting.

  That should have worried him, but he was too concerned with Sweet’s condition to think about it much. After all, Drisheen could not have ordered that any mortal harm be inflicted upon him. While the exact wording of the oath might possibly be interpreted to allow it, Drisheen must know that the rest of the Society would not stand for such trickery in this case.

  He was being escorted up the front walk, between beds of bright flowers he barely saw, and into the foyer of the main house, a small room with windows of colored glass that streaked the marble floor with blue and yellow light. Here one of the guards who had accompanied him announced to a worried-looking housemaid, “This is Lord Obsidian.”

  “Oh,” the maid said. “The one who…”

  She didn’t finish the sentence, but looked questioningly at the guard.

  He nodded.

  This exchange penetrated Arlian’s distraction; he looked around, wondering whether Drisheen might have arranged some nonlethal trap.

  “This way, then,” the maid said, pointing and leading the way.

  Arlian followed her down a corridor, around a turn, and finally into a tall library, where a balcony some ten feet above the floor encircled the room, giving access to a second tier of bookshelves.

  Two naked bodies dangled from the balcony railing—two bodies with legs that ended in long-healed stumps, two women hanging from nooses around their necks.

  “He hanged them last night,” the housemaid said. “In a great hurry.”

  Arlian stared at the two dead women. Recognizing their twisted, congested features was not easy, but he knew them—Sparkle and Ferret.

  “He said it was a gift just for you, my lord,” the housemaid continued. “A going-away present, one we were to show you as soon as you came.”

  Arlian’s teeth gritted; without a word he turned and marched out.

  No one made a move to stop him, which was just as well—his hand was on his sword hilt, and Arlian would have cut down anyone, no matter who it was, who got in his way.

  He had known that Enziet thought of other people, those who had not acquired the heart of the dragon, as unimportant, as things to be used or tossed aside as the whim took him; he had not realized that Drisheen shared that attitude.

  And two more innocent women were dead because he had not realized they were in danger.

  It might already be too late, but there were two more yet unaccounted for. Arlian was running by the time he left Drisheen’s land, and wasted no time in proceeding to Toribor’s more modest estate, on the southern edge of the Upper City.

  “I’m looking for two slaves,” he told the gatekeeper without preamble. “Two young women with no feet.”

  Startled, the gatekeeper stared at him. “Ah—would their names be Cricket and Brook?” the man asked.

  “Yes,” Arlian replied—by process of elimination, he now finally knew that the other dead women were Sandalwood and Amber; at last, all sixteen were accounted for.

  “I thought you must mean them,” the gatekeeper said. “They’ve lived here for years. They’re the only ones with their feet cut off.”

  At least Toribor hadn’t killed them long ago, as Enziet had killed Dove and Horim had killed Daub and her unknown companion—but he might have followed Drisheen’s hideous example. “Where are they?” Arlian demanded.

  “Lord Toribor took them with him,” the gatekeeper said.

  “They’re still alive?” Arlian asked, relieved.

/>   “Well, they were when they left,” the gatekeeper said, clearly puzzled by the question.

  Arlian did not bother to assuage the fellow’s curiosity; he turned away without another word and headed home at a trot.

  Two more dead—but two still alive! He might yet save them. A smile of relief struggled to be born at the thought, but he fought it down.

  Cricket and Brook—he remembered them well. Cricket had been the very smallest of the women in the House of the Six Lords, and had been called upon to play the part of child in some customers’ games—a role she hated, so that at other times she tried very hard to act older than her modest years.

  And Brook had been named for her habit of humming and babbling quietly when working or when happy.

  Those two were yet another argument in favor of leaving the city in pursuit of his foes—but Sweet worried him. She seemed so ill. His stillborn smile vanished completely, and he quickened his pace.

  Home at the Old Palace he barely took time to toss his cloak aside before hurrying to Sweet’s room. He had given her a chamber in the east wing, with a fine view of the garden—though this time of year that was no great delight, as the flowers were all done for the year and the leaves going brown.

  Black met him in the passageway outside her room and said, “She’s no better. Ari, this isn’t the aftereffects of torture; should I sent for a physician? I’ve asked Thirif if there’s anything he or the other magicians can do, and he says there isn’t.”

  “Of course they can’t do anything,” Arlian said. “Magic is all deceit and destruction. It can’t heal. At best it could make her think she was well, and that would do more harm than good.”

  “Then should I summon a physician?”

  Arlian shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “Let me talk to her first. She may know more than she’s told us.”

  Black was clearly unhappy with this decision. “As you say,” he said. “I’ve told the servants that there is to be someone in the room at all times, ready to help if anything happens.”

  “Good,” Arlian said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thank you, Black.”

  Black hesitated. “My true name is Beron,” he said. “I’ve meant to tell you that for some time now. What of the other women, though?”

  “Beron,” Arlian acknowledged. He sighed. “Drisheen hanged the two he held—they were called Ferret and Sparkle. Lord Belly took Cricket and Brook with him.”

  “But they’re alive?”

  “So far,” Arlian said.

  “Will you tell her?”

  “I’ll decide that when the occasion arises.”

  “Good enough,” Black said. With a nod, the men passed one another and Arlian entered Sweet’s chamber. He found her lying in bed, talking quietly with Kitten while a servant bustled about, dusting and straightening. Kitten was wearing a long blue gown intended to conceal the fact that she had no feet, and was perched on the edge of the bed, chatting happily.

  All three women heard him enter and glanced at the door.

  “Triv!” Sweet said, smiling broadly at the sight of him. She beckoned at him. Kitten turned and inched over to make room on the bed.

  Arlian took the place offered and leaned over to kiss Sweet’s brow. Her skin was clammy and sheened with sweat. When he straightened she raised a hand for him to hold, and he saw that it trembled.

  Black was clearly right, as Arlian had already feared—this was more than the aftereffects of her long imprisonment.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Wonderful, now that you’re here,” she said, beaming.

  He smiled back briefly, but then his concern forced the corners of his mouth back down.

  “Let me be blunt,” he said. “You don’t look wonderful. You look seriously ill. Should I send for a doctor?”

  Her smile wavered. She shook her head. “No, no. I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine,” Arlian insisted.

  Her smile flickered, then vanished. She looked at Kitten, and at the servant, then up at Arlian.

  “Send them away,” she said.

  “Sweet!” Kitten protested.

  Arlian raised a hand to silence her. “I’ll be right back,” he told Sweet as he rose.

  He scooped a protesting Kitten up in his arms, her blue gown tangling around one wrist; she didn’t struggle, and threw her arms around his neck, but even as she did she was saying, “Triv, let me stay, please!”

  “No,” Arlian told her. “I’ll bring you back in a moment, I promise.” Then he turned to the housemaid, beckoning as best he could while holding Kitten. “Come,” he said.

  He carried Kitten down the hall to an adjoining chamber and set her in a chair there; the servant followed, and stood by, awaiting instructions.

  “Attend her,” he said, indicating Kitten. “I’ll return soon.” Then he hurried out.

  A moment later he was again seated on Sweet’s bed.

  “You know what’s happening to you, don’t you?” he said. “Tell me what you know.”

  She smiled weakly at him. “I love you, Triv,” she said.

  “Then tell me,” he insisted

  “It’s sorcery,” she told him. “Lord Dragon’s sorcery.”

  “What sort of sorcery? Has he cast a spell on you?”

  “In a fashion,” she said. She shuddered. “Every time he came to see me, he forced me to drink his blood.”

  Arlian stared at her. “But … but his blood is poison,” he said.

  “You know?” she asked, startled.

  Arlian did not know how to answer that; he was not eager to tell this woman he cared for that his own blood was likewise polluted and toxic, yet he was demanding secrets from her—did he have the right to keep his own?

  He nodded, but said nothing.

  “Do you know any more than that?” Sweet asked eagerly. “Perhaps there’s hope after all…”

  “Tell me what you know,” Arlian said, “and perhaps together we’ll see what’s to be done.”

  She frowned. “It started not long after he brought me to Manfort,” she said. “I would still fight him sometimes back then, and once I bit his hand, hard enough that blood showed on his skin. Angered, after he knocked me away he grabbed me by the hair and said, ‘So you like the taste of blood? Then blood you shall have!’ And he shoved his hand in my mouth and made a fist, so that the blood oozed up.’ She trembled at the memory. “It tasted foul, Triv. I’ve tasted blood before, and this was different. It stank of corruption.”

  “I can readily believe it,” Arlian muttered.

  “But then he snatched it away and said, ‘No, that’s too easy. Spit it out.’ And I tried, I spat out all I could, but the next day I woke up sweating and trembling…”

  “As you did today,” Arlian said.

  She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Just as today. And he came and looked at me, and I could see he was thinking. Then he went away for a time, leaving me there, and then came back with a needle. I thought he meant to draw my blood, but instead he jabbed his own hand with it, then forced open my mouth and smeared a drop of his blood on my tongue.”

  “But why?” Arlian asked, puzzled.

  “An experiment, he called it. But it helped—the chills passed away, and I felt well again for a time. After a few days it happened again, and again he fed me a drop of his blood. It became a regular thing, a normal part of my existence in that house. He told me that I was addicted, that my body had been changed forever by the sorcery in his blood, and that if I went without it, if we were ever parted for more than a few days, I would die.” She smiled crookedly. “Only a single drop, though—more than that, he assured me, would kill me. After that I sometimes tried to cut or bite him, to draw more blood so that I might end my suffering, but I never managed it. Instead I got the one drop, whenever I needed it.” She grimaced. “That went on all the time I was there; I tasted that stinking blood of his a hundred times. I was expecting another visit when you came to rescue me.”

>   “But you believe you’ll die of this?”

  “He said so,” Sweet said with a shrug.

  “But … by the dead gods, Sweet, why didn’t you say something? Why did you let me take you away if you knew you’d die without his blood?”

  She smiled up at him. “Because,” she said, “I would rather die here with you than live there with him.”

  Arlian stared silently at her for a moment as his throat tightened and his eyes moistened.

  “You won’t die,” he said. “Not if I can prevent it!”

  After all, if she needed the blood of a dragonheart, that was easily come by. He was tempted to draw his sword-breaker then and there, prick his finger, and let her taste a drop of his blood—but that would mean revealing that he was as tainted as Enziet, and he did not want Sweet to see that, not yet.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said. He rose and stepped out into the hallway. There he drew his blade, jabbed the ball of his thumb, and squeezed out a thick drop of dark blood.

  He could not let her see that it came from him, though; he smeared it onto the back of his other hand, then sheathed the blade and returned to her bed.

  “Here,” he said, holding out his bloodied hand. “Lick this.”

  She stared at the red smudge, then up at his face. “He’s here?” she squeaked.

  “No, of course not,” Arlian said. “This came from another sorcerer.”

  Hesitantly, she lifted her head, closed her eyes, and thrust out her tongue, and Arlian pressed his hand to her lips.

  She licked, and then gagged. He snatched his hand away.

  “It’s different!” she said. “It’s … it’s not the same, not as vile. It’s foul, but different.”

  “It may work, all the same,” Arlian said, worried.

  “It may,” she said, obviously not convinced. She sank back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

  Arlian stared down at her. “I’ll let you rest,” he said.

  He checked on her several times that night, and each time was the same—her brow damp with sweat, her hands trembling, her face pale and skin cool.

  His blood had not been enough.

  He consulted with Wither the next day, at the old man’s home—Wither had seen and studied the effects of a dragonheart’s blood before, in his attempts to preserve his women.